“Porky was perfectly all right when he got back here and since then he hasn’t received any more exposure than the rest of us. And the other two have not left Fort Repose. Porky’s a mess. Every time I see him he’s drunk. But the radiation is killing him faster than the liquor.”
“Who else is sick?”
“Bigmouth Bill Cullen—we’ll stop at his fish camp on the way to town—and Pete Hernandez.”
“It couldn’t be sort of an epidemic, could it?” Randy asked.
“No, it couldn’t. Radiation’s not a germ or a virus. You can eat or drink radioactive matter, like strontium 90 in milk. It can fall on you in rain. It can sift down on you in dust or in particles you can’t see on a day that seems perfectly clear. You can track it into the house on your shoes, or pick it up by handling any metal or inorganic matter that has been exposed. But you can’t catch it by kissing a girl, unless, of course, she has gold teeth.”
At the bend of River Road they caught up with Alice Cooksey riding Florence’s Western Union bicycle. Alone of all the people in Fort Repose, Alice continued with her regular work. Every morning she left the Wechek house at seven. Often, ignoring the unpredictable dangers of the road, she did not return until dark. Since The Day, the demand for her services had multiplied. They slowed when they overtook her, shouted a greeting, and waved. She waved back and pedaled on, a small, brave, and busy figure.
Watching the car chuff past, Alice reminded herself that this evening she must bring back new books for Ben Franklin and Peyton. It was a surprise, and a delight, to see children devour books. Without ever knowing it, they were receiving an education. Alice would never admit it aloud, but for the first time in her thirty years as librarian of Fort Repose she felt fulfilled, even important.
It had not been easy or remunerative to persist as librarian in Fort Repose. She recalled how every year for eight years the town council had turned down her annual request for air conditioning. An expensive frill, they’d said. But without air conditioning, how could a library compete? Drugstores, bars, restaurants, movies, the St. Johns Country Club in San Marco, the lobby of the Riverside Inn, theaters and most homes, were air conditioned. You couldn’t expect people to sit in a hot library during the humid Florida summer, which began in April and didn’t end until October, when they could be sitting in an air-conditioned living room coolly and painlessly absorbing visual pablum on television. Alice had installed a Coke machine and begged old electric fans but it had been a losing battle.
In thirty years her book budget had been raised ten percent, but the cost of books had doubled. Her magazine budget was unchanged, but the cost of magazines had tripled. So while Fort Repose grew in population, book borrowings dwindled. There had been so many new distractions, drive-in theaters, dashing off to springs and beaches over the weekends, the mass hypnosis of the young every evening, and finally the craze for boating and water-skiing. Now all this was ended. All entertainment, all amusements, all escape, all information again centered in the library. The fact that the library had no air conditioning made no difference now. There were not enough chairs to accommodate her readers. They sat on the front steps, in the windows, on the floor with backs against walls or stacks. They read everything, even the classics. And the children came to her, when they were free of their chores, and she guided them. And there was useful research to do. Randy and Doctor Gunn didn’t know it, but as a result of her research they might eat better thereafter. It was strange, she thought, pedaling steadily, that it should require a holocaust to make her own life worth living.
At the town limits, Dan turned into Bill Cullen’s fish camp, cafe, and bar. The grounds were more dilapidated and filthier than ever. The liquor shelves were bare. The counters in the boathouse tackle shop were empty. Not a plug, fly, or hook remained. Bigmouth Bill had been cleaned out months before.
His wife, straw-haired and barrel-shaped, stepped out of the living quarters. Randy sniffed. She didn’t smell of spiked wine this day. She simply smelled sour. Alone of all the people he had seen, she had gained weight since The Day. Randy guessed that she had cached sacks of grits and had been living on grits and fried fish. She said, “He’s in here, Doc.”
Dan didn’t go in immediately. “Does he seem any better?” he asked.
“He’s worse. His hands is leakin’ pus.”
“How do you feel? You haven’t had any of his symptoms, have you?”
“Me? I don’t feel no different. I’ve felt worse.” She giggled, showing her rotting teeth. “You ever had a hangover, Doc? That’s when I’ve felt worse. Right now I wish I felt worse so I could take a drink and feel better. You get it, Doc?” She came closer to Dan and lowered her voice. “He ain’t goin’ to die, is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“The old tightwad better not die on me now. He’s not leavin’ me nuthin’, Doc. He don’t even own this place free and clear. He ain’t never even made no will. He’s holdin’ out on me, Doc. I can tell. He had six cases stashed away after The Day. Claims he sold all six to Porky Logan. But he don’t show me no money. You know what, Doc? I think he’s got that six cases hid!”
Dan brushed past her and they entered the shack. Bill Cullen lay on a sagging iron bed, a stained sheet pulled up to his bare waist. In the bad light filtering through the venetian shade over the single window, he was at first unrecognizable to Randy. He was wasted, his eyes sunken, his eyeballs yellow.
Tufts of hair were gone from one side of his head, exposing reddish scalp. His hands, resting across his stomach, were swollen, blackened, and cracked. He croaked, “Hello, Doc. ” He saw Randy and said, “I’ll be damned—Randy.”
The stench was too much for Randy. He gagged, said, “Hello, Bill,” and backed out. He leaned over the dock railing, coughing and choking, until he could breathe deeply of the sweet wind from the river.
When Dan came out they walked silently back to the car together. All Dan said was, “She was right. He’s worse. I’ll swear he’s had a fresh dose of radiation since I saw him last.”
They drove on to Marines Park. The park had become the barter center of Fort Repose. Dan said, “Do you want to go on with me to the schoolhouse?”
“No, thanks,” Randy said. He was glad he wasn’t a doctor. A doctor required special courage that Randy felt he did not possess.
“I’ll pick you up here in an hour. Then I’ll see Hernandez and Logan and then home.”
“Okay.” Randy got out of the car.
“Don’t swap for less than two pounds. Scotch is darn near as scarce as coffee.”
“I’ll make the best deal I can,” Randy promised. Dan drove off.
Randy tucked the bottle under his arm and walked toward the bandstand, an octagon-shaped wooden structure, its platform elevated three feet above what had once been turf smooth as a gold green, now unkempt, infiltrated with weeds and booby-trapped with sandspurs. A dozen men, legs dangling, sat on the platform and steps. Others moved about, the alert, humorless smile of the trader on their faces, Three bony horses were tethered to the bandstand railing. Like Randy, some of the men carried holsters at their belts. A few shotguns and an old-fashioned Winchester leaned against the planking. The armed men had come in from the countryside, a risk.
A third of the traders in Marines Park, on this day, were Negroes. The economics of disaster placed a penalty upon prejudice. The laws of hunger and survival could not be evaded, and honored no color line. A backyard hen raised by a Negro tasted just as good as the gamecocks of Carleton Hawes, the well-to-do realtor who was a vice president of the county White Citizens Council, and there was more meat on it. Randy saw Hawes, a brace of chickens dangling from his belt, drink water, presumably boiled, from a Negro’s jug. There were two drinking fountains in Marines Park, one marked “White Only,” the other “Colored Only.” Since neither worked, the signs were meaningless.
Hawes saw Randy, wiped his mouth, and called, “Hey, Randy.”
“Hello, Carleton.”
“What’re you trading?”
“A bottle of Scotch.”
Hawes’ eyes fixed on the paper bag and he moved closer to Randy, cautious as a pointer blundered upon quail. Randy recalled from Saturday nights at the St. Johns Club that Scotch was Hawes’ drink.
“What’s your asking price?” Hawes asked.
“Two pounds of coffee.”
“I’ll swap you these two birds. Both young hens. See how plump they are? Better eating you’ll never have.”
Randy laughed.
“Being it’s you, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ve got eggs at home. I’ll throw in a couple of dozen eggs. Have ‘em here tomorrow. On my word. If you don’t believe me, you can take the birds now, as a binder.”
“The asking price,” Randy said, “is also the selling price. Two pounds of coffee. Any brand will do.”
Hawes sighed. “Who’s got coffee? It’s been three months since I’ve had a drink of Scotch. Let me look at the bottle, will you?”
Randy showed him the label and moved on to the bandstand.
The square pillars supporting the roof had become a substitute for the county weekly’s want-ad section and the radio station announcements. Randy read the notices, some in longhand, some hand printed, a few type-written, pinned to the timbers.
WILL SWAP—Late model Cadillac Coupe de Ville, radio, heater, air-conditioned, battery run down but undamaged, for two good 28-inch bicycle tires and pump.
DESPERATELY NEED—evaporated milk, rubber nipple and six safety pins. Look over our house and make your own deal.
HAVE SMALL CANNED HAM, want large kettle, Encyclopaedia Britannica, box 12-gauge No. 7 shells, and toothpaste.
Randy closed his eyes. He could taste that ham. He had an extra kettle, the encyclopedia, the shells, and toothpaste. But he also had prospects of fresh ham if they could preserve the Henrys’ young pigs from marauders, wolves or whatever. Anyway, it was too big a price to pay for a small ham.
WANTED—Three 2/0 fishhooks in exchange for expensive fly rod, reel, assorted lures.
Randy chuckled. Sports fishing no longer existed. There were only meat fishermen now.
WILL TRADE 50-HP Outboard motor, complete set power tools, cashmere raglan topcoat for half pound of tobacco and ax.
Randy saw a notice that was different:
EASTER SERVICES
An interdenominational Easter Sunrise Service will be held in Marines Park on Sunday, April 17th.
All citizens of Fort Repose, of whatever faith, are invited to attend.
Signed,
Rev. John Carlin, First Methodist Church
Rev. M. F. Kenny, Church of St. Paul’s
Rev. Fred Born, Timucuan Baptist Church
Rev. Noble Watts, Afro-Repose Baptist Church
The name of the Rector of St. Thomas Episcopal Church, where there had always been a Bragg pew, was missing. Dr. Lucius Somerville, a gentle, white-haired man, a boyhood companion of Judge Bragg, had been in Jacksonville on the morning of The Day and therefore would not return to his parish.
Randy wasn’t much of a churchgoer. He had contributed to the church regularly, but not of his time or himself. Now, reading this notice, he felt an unexpected thrill. Since The Day, he had lived in the imperative present, not daring to plan beyond the next meal or the next day. This bit of paper tacked on peeling white paint abruptly enlarged his perspective, as if, stumbling through a black tunnel, he saw, or thought he saw, a chink of light. If Man retained faith in God, he might also retain faith in Man. He remembered words which for four months he had not heard, read, or uttered, the most beautiful words in the language—faith and hope. He had missed these words as he had missed other things. If possible, he would go to the service. Sunday, seventeenth. Today was the fourteenth, and therefore Thursday.
He stepped up on the platform. The men lounging there, some of them acquaintances, some strangers, were estimating the shape of bulk of the sack he held, like a football, under his arm. Dour, bearded, hair unshorn or ludicrously cropped, they looked like ghost-town characters in a Western movie, except they were not so well fed as Hollywood extras, and their clothing, flowered sports shirts, shorts, or slacks, plaid or straw-peaked caps, was incongruous. John Garcia, the Minorcan fishing guide, asked the orthodox opening question, “What’re you trading, Randy?”
“A fifth of Scotch—twelve years old—the best.”
Garcia whistled. “You must be hard up. What’re you askin’?”
“Two pounds of coffee.”
Several of the men on the platform shifted their position. One snickered. None spoke. Randy realized that these men had no coffee, either for trading or drinking. No matter how well stocked their kitchens might once have been, or what they had purchased or pillaged on The Day and in the chaotic period immediately after, four months had exhausted everything. Randy’s community was far more fortunate with the bearing groves, fish loyally taking bait, the industrious Henrys and their barnyard, and some small game—squirrels, rabbits, and an occasional possum.
John Garcia was trading two strings of fish, a four-pound catfish and small bass on one, warmouth perch and bream on the other. Garcia’s brown and weathered skin had shriveled on his slight frame until he seemed only bones loosely wrapped in dried leather. The sun was getting warm. With his toe Garcia nudged his fish into the shadow. “Wouldn’t trade for fish, would you, Randy?” he asked, sniffing.
“Fish we’ve got,” Randy said.
“You River Road people do all right by yourselves, don’t you?” a stranger said. “If you got Scotch likker, you got everythin’. Us, we ain’t got nuthin’.” The stranger was trading a saw, two chisels, and a bag of nails. Randy guessed he was an itinerant carpenter settled in Pistolville.
Randy ignored him and asked Marines Park’s inevitable second question, “What do you hear?”
Old Man Hockstatler, who was trading small tins of aspirins and tranquilizers, salvage from his looted pharmacy, said, “I hear the Russians are asking that we surrender.”
“No, no, you got that all wrong,” said Eli Blaustein. “Mrs. Vanbruuker-Brown demanded that the Russians surrender. They said no and then they said we should be the ones to surrender.”
“Where did you hear that?” Randy asked.
“My wife got it from a woman whose husband’s battery set still works,” Blaustein said. Blaustein was trading work pants and a pair of white oxfords and he was asking canned corn beef or cheese.
Randy knew that as the sun got higher John Garcia’s asking price for his fish would drop lower. At the same time Blaustein’s hunger would grow, or he would be thinking of his protein-starved family. Before the fish were tainted, there would be a meeting of minds. John Garcia would have a new pair of work pants and Blaustein would have food.
“What I would like to know,” said Old Man Hockstatler, “is who won the war? Nobody ever tells you. This war I don’t understand at all. It isn’t like World Wars One or Two or any other wars I ever heard of. Sometimes I think the Russians must’ve won. Otherwise things would be getting back to normal. Then I think no, we won. If we hadn’t won the Russians would still be bombing us, or they would invade. But since The Day I’ve never seen any planes at all.”
“I have,” said Garcia. “I’ve seen ‘em while I was fishing for cats at night. No, that ain’t exactly right. I’ve heard ‘em. I heard one two nights ago.”
“Whose?” Blaustein asked.
Garcia shrugged. “Beats me.”
This discussion, Randy knew, would continue through the day. The question of who won the war, or if the war still continued, who was winning, had replaced the weather as an inexhaustible subject for speculation. Each day you could hear new rumors, usually baseless and always garbled. You could hear that Russian landing craft were lined up on Daytona Beach or that Martian saucers were unloading relief supplies in Pensacola. Randy believed nothing except what he himself heard or saw, or those sparse hard grains of fact sifted from the air waves by Sam Hazzard.
Randy had been leaning on the bandstand railing. He straightened, stretched, and said, “Guess I’ll circulate around and look for somebody who’s holding coffee.”
John Garcia said, “You coming to the Easter service, Randy?”
“Hope so. Hope to come and bring the family.” As he stepped from the bandstand he looked again at the two useless drinking fountains. There was something important about them that he could not recall.
This was irritating, as when the name of an old friend capriciously vanishes from memory. The drinking fountains made his mind itch.
He saw Jim Hickey, the beekeeper, a picnic basket under his long, outstretched legs, relaxed on a bench. Before The Day Jim had rented his hives to grove owners pollinating young trees. Before The Day, Jim’s honey was a secondary source of income; “gravy,” he called it. Now, honey was liquid gold, and beeswax, with which candles could be dipped, another valuable item of barter. Jim Hickey, who was Mark’s age, had learned beekeeping at the College of Agriculture in Gainesville. It would never make him rich, he had been warned, and until The Day it hadn’t. Now he was regarded as a fortunate man, rich in highly desirable commodities endlessly produced by tens of thousands of happy and willing slaves.
“What are you trading?” he greeted Randy.
“A bottle of Scotch. Are you holding coffee?”
“No. I’ve been trying to trade for coffee myself. Can’t find any. All I hold is honey.” He lifted the lid of the picnic basket. “Lovely stuff, isn’t it?”
It was lovely. Randy thought of Ben Franklin and Peyton, whose need and desire for sweets could not be wholly supplied by the sugar content of citrus. It would be weeks before Two-Tone’s cane crop matured. Randy wondered whether he was being selfish, trading for coffee. It was true that he would share the coffee with he other adults on River Road, but the children didn’t drink it. There were no calories or vitamins in coffee and it was of no use to them. He forced himself to be judicial. When you examined the facts judicially, and asked which would provide the greatest good for the greatest number, there could be only one answer. Coffee would furnish only temporary and personal gratification. He said, “Jim, maybe I could be persuaded to trade for honey.”